Two weeks’ notice is plenty of time to find a new waitress she assures me and I go back home to the shitty single wide in an even shittier trailer park just west of town. The sun is setting over downtown Miami, bathing the busy city in pale gold and salmon pink as I arrive at home. I dread coming here, but since I’m saving every bit of money to pay my mother's debt, I can’t afford to get my own place. If I did, I worry, by the time I felt guilty enough to return to my mother’s for a visit, I’d be finding her corpse. Not that she is too far off now.
In the dingy, smoke-filled living room, I find my mother sleeping on the tattered floral couch. A cigarette slipped from her thin fingers and is melting another black spot into the brown carpeting. I don’t think the carpeting was always brown, or maybe it was. The trailer owners anticipating the stains and sorrow that bleed from the lost souls around this drug riddled hell-park.
I stub out the cigarette and cover her up with the knitted afghan that fell to the floor. As I lay the blanket up to her chin, mom's bloodshot-eyes pop open and she gasps.
“What are you doing?” she slurs.
“You fell asleep. I was covering you up.”
Fat tears fill her red eyes and a loud sob escapes bathing me in cheap whiskey and stale smoke. God, she’s drunk. Barely seven in the evening and she’s passed out. I don’t know why I keep expecting more out of her. She’s never been a mom. More like my big-fucked-up sister who I had to put to bed, or hold her hair back when she was puking into the toilet.
Carrie is not the kind of mom who waited for me at the bus stop, or made breakfast, or asked how school was. That’s not fair of me, there were a few times she tried. She went to rehab, granted it was court ordered, but she did go to those nightly meetings. Yet she always fell right back down and picked up her old habits. They do die hard, most of the time killing the person before they can get the cruel claws of addiction out.
Pissed, I flick on the table lamp and the gray, hazy room comes to focus. Mom puts her hands up shielding her face.
“I got the job,” I tell her. Not that she cares, not about the internship itself, just the money I’ll bring in.
“You did!” Her hands fall and she sits up. Now, I’m the one gasping because half her face is one giant blob of bruised blue, and a deep cut runs over her cheekbone.
“Jesus Christ!” I scream. “What the fuck happened?”
Mom winces and touches her cheek. “I got paid a visit.”
“Chuck?” I ask though I know it was him. Bastard said we had four weeks to get the first half of the money, then he’ll take the rest in payments. I succeeded yesterday on my shopping excursion, to secure a small personal loan at one of those shady banks for five-thousand. I’ve got twenty-five hundred in savings I was going to use for a car, so I’m up to seven and a half thousand. Which leaves the two of us four weeks to get the rest—an additional seven thousand. I’m just hoping in case I don’t have every last dime, Chuck will be feeling generous again when he comes back, but that is quickly fading as I look at my mom's face.
Chuck is the collector guy for the biggest drug lord this side of the state, and my mother apparently owes money to him. I had the distinct feeling when Chuck showed up to collect a few days ago, he isn’t usually the generous type, but he has a soft spot for my mother. I’ve seen him come over a few times for a ‘night cap’.
“Chuck hit you?”
Mom shakes her head and a big tear falls. “He had his friend do it. Said he doesn’t like hurting women.”
This is escalating to well past scary. We’re falling into shark infested waters. “Why did he come by?”
“Chuck said his boss wants the money by next week. All of it.” Mom starts to weep, but I can’t muster a single ounce of pity for her. Her addictions got us into this mess. “Chuck said if we don’t have it, he’ll be forced to follow through with his previous threat.”
Shit. His previous threat involved cutting, and I think he said disappearing, but I was so scared the last time he was here I blanked out. Chuck showed up last week with his Hispanic pit-bull friend and informed us of our options. They weren’t great options, actually no options. We either did as asked or we didn’t and he was going to sic his dead-eyed friend on us.
Damn it. I’m so mad, I could spit. Here I’m trying to build myself up out of this life and she keeps dragging me down. I should leave, but according to the drug mob ruling Miami, this is a family affair. We could take our seven thousand and run, but we’d just be tracked down. I see news reports about Big Boss and his family. Bodies found in dumpsters, husbands going missing. Everyone knows who is behind it, but even the police are so corrupt, they just turn a blind-eye. Big Boss Jones runs this city.
He’s the well-built guy on the news with the over the top beautiful wife you can’t help but pity, and three kids. All daughters by some sick twist of fate because everyone knows Boss Jones hires whores and beats the shit outta them. There are rumors of sex trafficking that follow him as well, but the authorities turn another blind eye. Jones has the chiseled chin and dark eyes of movies stars of old with a smile to match. He makes his appearances at city official dinners and galas with other shady types. He’s constantly surrounded by lawyers, bodyguards, and the press. The news people love Boss Jones because he’s dangerous and handsome; the city hates him but fears his power.
What are we supposed to do now? There is no way we can come up with that much cash so fast. Thirty thousand in the grand scheme isn’t an enormous amount, but it is, when you grew up on bologna and plastic wrapped cheese.
I can’t stand mom's sobs anymore so I grab my purse and head out the door. Outside the urban decay of a big city in the throes of an economic depression, creep down on me. A baby howls from some dilapidated trailer and I try to block it out. The poor soul has no chance. None of us do. Every family, no matter what race, are just another statistic, and mom and I will end up being one of those bodies found on the news. Wives will sit around drinking their coffee in little shops, whispering how sad a life the people living in this aluminum box riddled landscape really is.
And it is. Which is why I’m going to get myself out of it.
I grab the bus and head to my usual haunt. Gypsy’s—a hole in the wall cafe with a wicked baklava. It’s not just the great food I’m looking for, it’s my partner in crime’s workplace.
The flickering neon sign outside Gypsy’s tells me they are still open and will be until midnight. It’s the only place that dares to stay open this late on this side of town. Inside, the black walls absorb the florescent light and wash out the few patrons eating dessert and drinking coffee. The owner had the locals come in and graffiti the one stone wall at the back, so vivid bursts of color are the only respite in the otherwise monochromatic space.
I pass by the woman who comes to this place every Friday night and give her a smile. She has sat in the front window for the last six months, eating a piece of pie and drinking sparkling water until exactly nine p.m. when a huge black sedan comes to collect her. Then she leaves, transforming what one thought was a mere mousy woman, into a smoking hot vixen, complete with a hip sway and stiletto heels, tossing her regular woman sitting in a coffee-house aside.
My friend, Ginny, my rock and only solid mass in this otherwise ever-changing and overbearing world, stands at the counter watching Ms. Pie. We’ve decided this past Friday the sparkling water drinker is a prostitute, and a high class one at that. She has to be. We can’t come up with another explanation.
“Who do you think comes to get her?” Ginny whispers as I sit at the counter. No, hellos, no how’d the interview go? Straight back to what we were discussing last night.
Ginny loves a mystery. She’s a regular private eye and knows everything about the people who come to this place. If they don’t tell her themselves; falling into the warmth of Ginny’s hazel eyes and wavy black hair, she takes to the internet to get more information.
All it takes is a name, which she memorizes when she slides their credi
t card through the machine. I have always told Gin, she should have gone into the police force or go to school to become a PI, or whatever it takes, but she says she’s content people watching. It’s a lie I let her get away with.
I glance back at Ms. Pie and shrug, “Her pimp?”
“Just because she gets picked up doesn’t mean she’s a prostitute, that's just plain rude to jump to conclusions,” Ginny scolds.
“Because sitting here whispering about her isn’t?”
Ginny makes a face and rolls her eyes. “We should just ask her.”
“Now that’d be rude,” I guff. “Going up and asking, ‘Hey lady, are you a woman of the night?’ Yeah Gin, that’s not rude at all.”
“I don’t mean like that.” Ginny rolls her eyes again. “I mean starting a conversation. She always pays cash, never talks to anyone and I can’t get a thing out of—”
Ginny’s eyes grow wide and she clamps her mouth shut. I turn in my seat and see Ms. Pie headed for us. It’s not the seductive walk she uses when her ride comes, it’s just a regular run of the mill woman walk.
Shit.
She must be sick of hearing us whisper about her. The woman stops just a few inches from me and holds her hand out. Up close, I see she’s extremely well put together. Manicured nails on smooth hands, hinting no real hard work. Flawless skin over a well-toned body. No big boobs or bleached hair. Very little makeup covers her feminine features. She’s all natural and stunning.
“I think it’s time I introduced myself, formally,” she says. “I’m Lena.”
Ginny and I are both so stunned we stare at her blankly. Shaking myself out of my shock, I grip her hand. “Jessica, friends call me Jess.”
Lena smiles, “Hello, Jess. It’s nice to meet you. Let’s stay in touch.” She leaves, just walks out and the door jingles behind her. A second later, the black sedan pulls up and Lena’s gone.
I look down and see she’s slipped a small black card in my hand. I flip it over and Gin leans in to inspect it with me. There is no website, no numbers, only a name—Madam Jolie in fancy script next to a pair of high heels.
“I knew it!” Gin exclaims.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I tell her, but Ginny is already digging her smartphone from her pocket and punching in the name on the card.
After a few minutes, she holds in up for me to see. A black webpage, with the same name and heels, looks back at me, along with a button to confirm you are, in fact, eighteen and up. I hit the screen, dying to know what the page is though I have a feeling it’s a porno site.
The screen changes, telling me if I want full access and all services available, I’ll have to become a club member. This page fades after a minute and the home page comes up.
Madam Jolie’s Escort Service. Not what I was expecting.
Everyone on the face of the Earth knows what an Escort Service is. They slide through the legal formalities by stating their dating service is strictly for dates. Men and woman with too much money and not enough personal time who want a night of passion with a skilled stranger.
I grab the phone and continue further into the site. From what I gather, it is a made to order service. You can pick and choose exactly what you want for your date. Which region of the country they stem from, if they have an accent, or can pretend an accent, or speak another language. Education level, hair color, eye color—name it and you can have it for the night.
“Your very own dream date,” I say, pointing to the slogan. “Custom ordered.”
There is no pricing on the website, but it states you can have a lovely night out with a trained date professional for as little as five thousand, for a four-hour date. I choke and reread. Five thousand for four hours? That’s a third of what I mom owes in two dates.
I check the time again, just past nine. I send the link to myself and hand Gin her phone back. Two thousand for a ‘special’ date. It does state just a date, but again, everyone knows what an escort service is a cover for. High-class sex. I can’t sell sex. I’m a damned virgin.
But, today, landing that job with barely opening my mouth, I can impress. Maybe they actually don’t require sex. Only one way to find out. I pocket the card and push up from the counter.
“Where are you going?” Gin asks as I grab my purse.
“Have some research to do,” I tell her and lean over the counter to hug her.
“About that place?” she asks with wide eyes.
“Um, yeah, I need money and fast Jess.” I lean in and look around making sure the guy I the back of the place isn’t paying attention. “Chuck paid mom a visit while I was at work. All of it by Friday.”
Gin’s eyes grow. “That’s impossible.”
I tap my pocket where I shoved the card. “Maybe not.”
Chapter 3
I call the number I found on the site and tell the lady who answers Lena gave me their card. I am then transferred to another woman with a thick southern drawl who asks what Lena said when she gave me the card. I tell the southern voice and I am transferred yet again.
“Madam Jolie’s House,” a sweet female says.
“I was given your card,” I say, not sure what else I’m supposed to include. I’ve been passed around from receptionist to receptionist, and all I really want to know is—where do I put in my application?
“Yes,” the voice says and then gives me an address. “Do you have it written down, Ms. Caughlin?”
I stutter because I never gave my name and I’m on a cell phone. “Yes.”
“Please make sure you arrive by ten-thirty sharp.” The line is disconnected.
Madam Jolie’s is located just outside of downtown Miami. Tucked neatly between a modern high-rise and a concrete bank, the old brownstone building looks nothing like what you’d expect from an Escort Service. It looks more like an old lawyer’s office.
I’m still in my attire from my interview with Mr. Firth this morning. God, was it only this morning? Amazing how life can change in just a few hours. I’ve gone from landing the job of my dreams to sitting in a brothel.
Everything in this part of the waiting room is decorated in black, except for the red lounge chairs and black acrylic shiny tables holding vintage lamps with red shades. The walls have a damask pattern but in black velvet. Exactly what I’d expect.
“Madam Jolie is ready.”
I glance up from the magazine in my lap and see another woman. She wears a red pants suit and red heels. Her curly blonde hair frames a delicate face and I’m noticing a trend. All natural, no frills beauty. I put the magazine down and my stomach flutters around.
I’m just here for information.
Ms. Pantsuit guides me into a red painted hall with dark wood floors and metal fronted doors lining the walls. We walk to the very last one where she knocks and then opens it for me. Behind the door is a black office, and by black I mean everything is black. The shag carpets on the hardwood, velvet sofas, vintage desk, and onyx mirror over a small table. Even the fancy Victorian lampshades and antique phone.
A small woman with silver hair sits behind the black desk and looks up with inquisitive but kind eyes when I come in. I’m taking a guess—from the intense black stare—she is Madam Jolie whose name is splashed over the website. She stands, and I see the same pantsuit, but in sleek black. Ms. Jolie gestures to the sofa, for me to sit, but not offering her hand.
“Lena gave you my card.” It’s not a question. The woman’s eyes glide over my outfit and then she moves from behind her desk to stand in front of me. Her silver hair is kept long and styled in tight pin curls, and her creamy skin shows barely any wrinkles. It’s hard to guess her age, she could be anywhere from her forties to late fifties. Ms. Jolie is a petite woman but has an intense air about her. “Lena has an excellent eye. With some work, you’ll be stunning.”
With some work? Lena has a good eye? “What—is she a scout for your brothel?
This makes the Madam smile. It spreads out warm and lands near friendly rather than condesce
nding. “Lena is my best employee. When she sees another woman she thinks I can help, and in turn help my business, she passes the word along.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I remain quiet. Apparently, I give off some kind of scent telling other women I’d do good working for an escort service.
“Lena called and said she found a woman who may need my help and she gave you my card,” Madam Jolie clarifies.
“How do you know I need help?”
“Lena gave you my card and hour and a half ago, Ms. Caughlin,” she says. “You’re in my office with scared doe eyes and a cheap rumpled suit. I’m going to guess whatever trouble you are in requires an immediate fix.”
I nod, the woman has a good eye, I like her, even though she insulted my fresh off the thrift store rack, outfit.
“So, I believe I may be able to help you.” Madam Jolie sits behind her desk again and steeples her fingers. “My business is centered on gratification. Not sexual, but emotional.”
“You run an escort service.”
She nods. “Yes. Specializing in providing a dream date for wealthy men and women.”
“Everyone knows what an escort service is,” I tell her.
“This part of my company is in the business of fulfilling fantasies, Ms. Caughlin,” Madam says. “Madam Jolie’s Escort Service deals strictly in those who seek company for a few hours a night. Whether my customers need an artist who can speak Japanese, a svelte well-spoken date to make colleagues envious, or a simple southern girl who can hold a conversation and act like she genuinely cares about her date’s life problems. No sexual contact is permitted.”
“So, you really just hire women out for dates?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yes, though I’m not saying sexual acts have not occurred after their date is over,” Madam says, “but my girls understand this company abides by strict rules. Should they find there dates attractive, they are welcome to see them outside of the contract they have entered.”
Seven Days - The Beginning (Jess & Liam's Story, #1) Page 2
